Rancher's Daughter
by Weir the Warlock
Summary: Sex and Violence in Westworld- a guest finds love with a host. First attempt at a M submission.


**Rancher's Daughter**

The whistle signalling the train's impending stop jolted Seymour Tosca awake; he hadn't even realized he'd dozed off. The train ground to a halt and the combination of paying visitors and constructs- hosts, they were called, rose to the exits.

As Seymour left he saw himself reflected in the mirror behind the wagon bar. Faded poncho, worn hat and fake cigarillo in his mouth he briefly thought he looked like someone else entirely- but then that was the point, wasn't it?

'You're not geeky old Seymour here,' he mentally reminded himself, 'Here you're- 'this new persona actually didn't have a name, but it occurred to him that fit somehow.

Moseying down the dusty street, Seymour collided with a host walking the opposite way. His first instinct was to apologize profusely- then it hit him- he didn't have to take that crap here- at least not from them.

"Hey Jerkoff!" He snarled, as the host turned back and glared his way he spat, "Ain't any of you bumpkins smart enough to look where you're going?"

The host stayed silent, but threateningly put his hand on the pistol holstered at his belt.

"You gonna skin that or whistle Dixie?" Seymour had no idea where he heard that phrase from, inwardly part of him worried he might have said it wrong. The host didn't seem to care; he whipped out his gun just as Seymour did the same. Two loud bangs later, Seymour held a smoking pistol in his shaking hand and the host was laying on his back in a pool of its own simulated blood.

A few onlookers gave him thumbs up but most people walked on by as if nothing happened at all. He holstered the pop gun, turned, and headed back into town.

Walking toward the saloon he saw an old man with a tin star pinned to his shirt pointing to a wanted poster with the name Escaton, saying what a low-down dirty skunk the man was, hiding up in the mountains. The sheriff saw Seymour and pointing toward him said, "You sir, you seem a righteous man- will you help bring this varmint to justice?"

Seymour paused on this then replied, "There a reward, other than seeing justice done?" That he could afford to come here meant he was richer than any bounty the sheriff could offer, but Seymour figured if he was playing the part, play it to the hilt.

The sheriff went into stating the price on this Escaton's head but Seymour didn't catch it- someone else had stolen his attention.

A beautiful blonde in a blue dress that did little to hide her form walked by in the distance toward a horse.

"Hold that thought, sheriff," Seymour muttered as he headed toward the woman.

As the lady fitted a saddlebag to the horse a can fell out and rolled away from her; in the time she turned around to fetch it Seymour had already picked up the can and held it toward her, politely asking, "Did you drop this ma'am?"

She plucked the can from his grasp, "Thank you kindly sir," she responded with a southern drawl so pronounced it bordered on cartoonish.

"Name's Seymour," he introduced himself, "And you are?"

"Dolores," she answered, "My father runs the Abernathy ranch."

So, she was a host. Seymour should have known a comely woman willing to give him the time of day couldn't be human. Still, she was gorgeous, and like the one who greeted him said, "If you can't tell, does it really matter?"

He looked back to the sheriff for a second, then to her, "Well, Dolores," he started, "I gotta bring someone back dead or alive, but maybe we can continue this later?"

"I'd like that," she said, "Anybody could point you toward the ranch, but you better beware my father's wrath."

"I assure you and you father I have nothing but the most honorable of intentions," Seymour stated while thinking, 'Least until I can get you alone somewhere daddy won't think to look'. Then he headed back in the direction of the sheriff.

As it was, when the dust had settled Seymour barely remembered following the sheriff up the mountain let alone plugging Escaton; all he could think about was staring back into the eyes of Dolores. When following the posse to the bank to be rewarded with what amounted to play money he had to restrain from yelling at the sheriff to hurry up.

Cue the moon and stars. A stranger dressed all in black ambled up the hill toward the Abernathy ranch. Judging from the sounds the narrative concerning bushwhackers jumping Ma and Pa Abernathy was getting started.

Hearing a faint sound from his left the stranger impulsively ducked behind some shrub. On the dirt path leading to the ranch gates approached a guest- who apparently wanted to be Clint Eastwood for a day. If this visitor noticed the stranger, he gave no sign.

From the direction of the ranch the crack of multiple pistols filled the air; drawing his six-gun the buffoon in the poncho raced toward the noise.

'Well there,' the stranger in black mused, 'This could get interesting.'

Dolores clutched her bleeding father as he faded. Behind her, past the house's open door lay her mother, before her the thugs who killed her parents, also dead.

"Hey honey," One of the two guests who'd just gunned down those that made Dolores a temporary orphan said as he and his friend approached, "They can't hurt you no more, we saw to that – "the mouthy guest grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her up toward him, "And I can think of a couple ways for you to show some gratitude."

Vaulting past the open gate Seymour overlooked the bodies, as his attention was solely on seeing two thugs dragging his beloved (or be-lusted at any rate,) Dolores away. Acting on impulse he fired- and saw the rounds uselessly impact on the two guests.

Feeling the shots from behind, the two thugs looked Seymour's way and laughed, "Those only work on the hosts, you dumbass," the one grabbing Dolores mocked.

"So it seems," Seymour felt a twinge of fleeting embarrassment, "Still I gotta insist you guys let her go- right about now."

"We were here first," the other thug snarled, "You can have her when we're done."

When they turned, Seymour changed his grip on the pistol preparing to club these brutes with the butt of the gun- then remembered the warnings he'd received on attacking other guests- if he bludgeoned them into the dirt, as much as they deserved it he would be the one punished- likely barred from this place for life. To stop them he had to get creative- maybe if…

"You guys like to play with dolls?" he asked in the most insulting manner he could.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the thug pawing Dolores snarled.

"Don't listen to him…" the other said.

"It means the only pussy you can get is robot pussy," Seymour snapped, "You can't even get robot pussy voluntarily, from the looks of it."

"Oh, "THAT'S IT!" Dropping Dolores, the thug shoved past his friend and tackled Seymour, pummelling him across the face until his friend pulled him off.

"What, are you fucking stupid?" the second thug admonished the first, "You heard what they said about attacking other guests, they probably got us on camera right now!"

"And if they don't," Seymour smirked, "I got the bruises to prove it," pointing to what he had no doubt was a black eye, "So I suggest you two get the fuck out of here."

The stranger in black smiled as he watched the previous two guests suddenly turn tail and run. Not the most macho way of dealing with them, but here it seemed to work.

Dolores ran over to Seymour, helping him to his feet. She winced as she looked at the black eye but Seymour assured her it looked worse than it really was. Mollified, she raced back to her fallen folks.

When Seymour finally caught up with her she threw herself toward him, burying her head in his chest and sobbing. The rational side of him knew the powers that be in this place would ensure tomorrow both parents would be resurrected and none of them would even remember this- fortunately he was able to keep that side of him silent.

Seymour helped Dolores bring her father's body inside; they carried both him and her mother to their bedroom. After that he found himself with her before the hearth on the main floor, staring into her eyes.

While he had rather salacious plans for Dolores, somehow acting on them at this moment didn't seem right. "Sorry about all this," he said before kissing her forehead, "I suppose I should show myself out."

"No," Dolores gripped his arm as he started to leave and pulled him back to her, "Please, I don't want to be alone now," then she reached back to undo her dress.

Realizing what she meant- and feeling the guilt he would for taking advantage of a flesh and blood woman in such a state he began to insist, "You really don't have to do- eep," his words dying as her dress fell and he stared transfixed on her body.

After a moment, Seymour realized what was expected of him; pulling the poncho over his shoulder and casting it aside he then started to reach for his belt- Dolores' hands got there first. Though he was hard under the pants he silently prayed that the creators of Westworld did NOT program their female hosts to be size queens. It was a rush of relief when, once his trousers were down she didn't look disappointed. Placing her hands on his shoulders Dolores pushed Seymour onto the rug then positioned her self over him.

'She wants to ride cowgirl,' he thought, 'How appropriate.' Taking his member in hand she held it in place before impaling herself on it with a shriek that had to have been audible all the way to Sweetwater. Grunting himself, Seymour realized he felt something in her tear followed by what felt like warm blood- it seemed her creators made her so lifelike they could even simulate her cherry being busted! Once he got over this discovery, he focused back on the fucking, taking both breasts in hand he kneaded them and circled the nipples with his thumbs, causing her to scream louder and ride him even harder- soon he burst but she didn't even seem to notice.

Elsewhere overseers Bernard Lowe and Theresa Cullen watched security escort two guests from the park forever. They'd tried to claim Seymour had initiated the incident and assaulted them first; Theresa used her tablet to show that the park monitors had captured what really happened, then she pointed out while he had taunted them, they chose to get physical.

Bernard looked to her, "This guest that they pummelled- should we worry about him?"

Theresa accessed the monitors back at the ranch, and saw despite his injuries said guest seemed to be enjoying himself- and Dolores.

"Looks like he's not hurting too bad," She showed Bernard "His good deed for the day has been rewarded, I don't think we need to be too concerned."

As Dolores lay inert against him Seymour stroked her hair. Despite knowing she was artificial, a construct, Seymour felt more for her than he had for any flesh and blood woman- even though he knew she was only programmed to feel anything back. That should have made it hollow- but for some reason he didn't feel it did.

When others heard he was considering a visit to Westworld they'd recommended he take a week package; at the time, he thought that was a lot to pay- surely shooting down faux outlaws would get boring long before a whole week ended.

And yet somehow they'd convinced him, and now he was glad they did, if for no other reason than a few more days with Dolores. He knew when he finally left he would be purged from her memory, that it would be like he'd never existed- but until then, Seymour resolved, he would be as part of her existence as long as he could.


End file.
